


Let me go on

by gloss



Category: The Carrie Diaries
Genre: Consent Issues, F/F, First Time, Intoxication, fetishizing the 1980s, florent: queen of the meat market
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 05:53:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/658677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Larissa and Manhattan are everything Carrie wants. To be, and to have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let me go on

Her friends claim Carrie talks about Larissa all the time. 

"Do not," she said. They were at lunch; it was too cold to be outside, but too nice to stay inside. Carrie tossed back her hair and curled her hands inside her cuffs. "What? She's cool. That's all."

Mouse and Mags exchanged a Look. 

"You talk about her more than _Sebastian_ ," Mouse said, then repeated his name with all the certainty of a geometry proof ending in QED.

"You totally do," Maggie said. She jabbed a carrot stick at Carrie's tray. "Like. Way more."

"Maybe. But..." Carrie didn't know what to say. She wasn't cold any longer. "It's different."

*

It _is_ different. Sebastian's her not-quite-boyfriend, of course she talks about him. But Larissa is _Larissa_. Names, Carrie suddenly understands with a blaze of insight, _names mean things_. "Larissa" isn't just this woman's name, it brings along with it so much more -- the scent of men's lime cologne, the swell of her breasts just barely visible in her plunging neckline, glamour, irreverence, _freedom_. Free from cares, from responsibilities, from anything remotely mundane.

"What's that, poppet?" Larissa is dragging her down a cobbled street, a part of Manhattan she never knew existed. 

"Names!" Carrie shouts. "They mean so much!"

Larissa's laugh is like nothing else in the world, long and bubbly and genuine. She lets go of Carrie's hand, leaves the palm cold and empty.

A rack of butcher's meat, taller than Carrie, pushes between them, trailing a man in a stained white coverall, then rattles off the curb. The slabs are red as bricks, swirled with fat. 

"Watch it!" another man calls. He's spraying down a building entrance; their heels click and splash through frothy, swirling blood and water. 

Larissa grabs her hand again and tugs her close. Carrie isn't used to this much touching, all this closeness. It's heady. It's _addictive_. She feels as bright and clean and sharp as a piece of Larissa's jewelry, as cold and strong as the gin they drank at Odeon.

"I'm nearly done in," Larissa confides, resting her cheek atop Carrie's skull, squeezing her tight. 

Sometimes Larissa goes this quiet, intimate, and Carrie holds her breath to treasure the moment as long as possible.

"Where _are_ we?" Carrie asks when another long rack of meat rattles down the sidewalk.

"Silly bird!" Larissa kisses her forehead, then tugs her onward. "Let's eat, I'm _famished_."

She finds herself in a narrow little diner that looks almost exactly like the restaurant they used to have lunch in on the way back from visiting Nana in the home. Except this place is wedged into the meatpacking district; it has rock music -- Talking Heads, girlfriend _is_ better and what's better than this? -- blaring, it's stuffed with yet another crowd of beautiful downtown freaks (all of whom, of course, know Larissa and greet her like their longlost best friend).

There's a line out front, snaking inside, but they don't have to wait. Larissa never has to wait. Carrie hurries after her, all the way through the narrow room to the back, to the restroom. Her purse bangs the shoulder of a guy with a mohawk; she nearly trips over a little old lady with magenta hair who suddenly stands up.

Larissa calls out an order as she passes the kitchen, then pushes into the restroom, Carrie in tow the whole time. 

"There," Larissa says, leaning against the door, pulling Carrie into her arms. Her breath is warm, humid, as she tips their foreheads together and her breathing gradually slows.

It's not like with Sebastian. This is being with a friend, a _beautiful_ friend who pets your hair and whispers into your ear, her accent getting thicker as the night progresses and the drinks tab adds up, a friend who chafes her hands up and down your upper arms, smiling at you so mysteriously you have to ask what's going on.

"Nothing," she replies, tilting her head, tracing Carrie's jaw and chin with her index finger. Her turquoise nail polish is perfect; the nail itself sharp, lightly scraping down Carrie's throat.

Carrie's pulse booms through her body suddenly. She's about as substantial as a dress hanging empty on the rack. Larissa is the real thing here, warm and solid, laughing low in her throat, holding Carrie at arm's length and looking her up and down and up again, pink tip of her tongue flickering in the corner of her mouth.

"When I drink lager, all I want to do is cuddle," Larissa says. Carrie thinks lager is a kind of beer, but she doesn't know for sure. She shuffles her feet, trying to find her balance, but Larissa walks her backward, three-four-five steps, until her butt hits the counter. It's wet, festooned with strips and globs of paper towel. 

"When I drink tequila," Larissa continues, coming in closer, so close that Carrie has to lift herself up onto the counter to make room, "all I want to do is _fuck_. Down and dirty, like a fucking _dog_ , hard as I can get it."

Carrie very carefully does not laugh. She smiles, though, she can't help it. Larissa's hands are on her waist now, moving up her sides, to her arm pits. Passing the edges of her breasts, then resting there, firming up their touch.

The image of Larissa bent over like a dog, taking it, cheek squashed into a carpet, her ass in the air and tits swinging, _God_. Carrie licks her lips and can't quite breathe.

"But it's odd. When I drink brandy," Larissa says finally, cocking her head and pulling herself flush against Carrie, lips right at Carrie's earlobe, "all I want is some sweet, sweet girl. Hmm?"

Carrie shudders in Larissa's hold. She's still that empty dress, slippery fabric, insubstantial, but she's tangling now, and her lungs hurt and her mouth is dry. Larissa kisses her softly, sweetly, moving one hand up to cup her cheek. The other cups Carrie's breast, harder, thumb flicking over her nipple.

"God," Carrie says.

"What about you, sweet Caroline? What do _you_ want?"

"I --"

"Hard and deep?" Larissa asks, thrusting against Carrie, grabbing her ass and pulling them together to grind. "Or nice and slow?"

Carrie's got this ache between her legs, something she's never felt before, not this much. It hurts and sparkles all at the same time; she clenches down, like she has to hold in pee, and the pain blossoms into deeper, needier pleasure.

"Hm?" Larissa asks.

"I don't -- I've never --"

Larissa kisses her then and Carrie kisses back, grateful she doesn't have to speak any longer. She shimmies forward, opening her legs wider, then locking them around the back of Larissa's thighs, gripping Larissa as tight as she can.

Larissa's laughing into the kiss, down Carrie's throat, chuckling and biting at the same time, pushing her hand into Carrie's bra and pinching her nipple until Carrie squeaks and rocks against the edge of the counter.

"Please," Carrie hears herself say, her voice hollow and faraway. "God, please --"

Larissa glances up at her, smirking a little. But she's breathing hard, too, and there's a sheen of sweat across her cheeks, in the hollow above her chin.

"Pretty girl," she murmurs, doing things with her nails and hand to Carrie's breast that hurt and feel great, "pretty little girl dollie..."

Carrie doesn't know where to put her hands. They land on Larissa's shoulders, grasp the huge pads there, then slide down her arms, then loop around her neck. Restless, anxious, rocking faster the more Larissa touches her, she's so lost she might as well be flying.

Fake it, Larissa told her, weeks ago now, when Carrie was a different person, smaller and duller and more scared.

So she does. She pushes her fingers into Larissa's soft, dry hair, she clutches and kisses and pulls one knee up, hooking her heel on the counter. Opens herself up and pulls Larissa with her, pushing her hips up, then down (the faucet digging into her hip, that's going to bruise), and Larissa laughs again. 

"You're so _wet_ ," she says and Carrie thinks she must have peed herself? But then Larissa's touching her, pushing her panties out of the way, kissing her again, so it can't be that, it's something else, something better.

She grasps at Larissa's ass, pushes forward and up to ride the fingers sliding inside her -- it hurts, again, but not badly, like this is something she needs, she just has to move faster, harder -- and pretty soon she isn't doing much more than banging her forehead against Larissa's shoulder and sobbing.

"Shh, shshhh," Larissa croons, kissing her temple, her neck, the tip of her nose, and Carrie can't help but remember how her mom did that to check the state of fever when she was sick. "You're so tight, it's delicious --"

Something huge and incorporeal -- but bright and substantial nonetheless -- pushes up through Carrie, exploding and inflating and carrying her away.

It takes her a long time, she doesn't know how long, to calm down. Cold sweat prickles her skin; one boob is hanging out of her bra and her crotch hurts as she tugs down her skirt. 

Larissa's fixing her lipstick in the mirror. She glances over at Carrie and squeezes her knee. 

"Now," she announces, capping her lipstick and pulling Carrie to her feet, "we eat."

Carrie opens her mouth and closes it. And again. 

"Okay," she says again, because she has never said no to Larissa. She can't imagine what that would be like.

It's just different, that's all.


End file.
